Locks and Doors
by Jess Idres
Summary: A continuation of 'Keys to a Kingdom'. Even the greatest of tragedies have a silver lining. And now the Watch is wondering what to do with a strange ambassador and his extended family...
1. Quiet Revelations

This isa little set of sequels for the angsty little fic called 'Keys to a Kingdom'. I had mentioned that originally I had planned to write a second chapter that's a bit more happy. People said I was right to end where I did, but one (coughBlankNedcough) suggested I post it as a sequel. Soon, one chapter led to two, and will keep going unless I'm stopped. So reading 'Keys to a Kingdom' is required, if you want to meet Sara and James for the first time.

Discworld is Pterry's, please don't sue me. Sara and James are my archtypes. They like being farmed out on occasion. Just make sure to feed James. See my deviant gallery for sketches of everyone.

Locks and Doors

By Jess Idres

* * *

There were thousands of houses in Ankh-Morpork; some were small, cheek and jowl, segmented houses of the Shades, while others were huge free standing structures on the Ankh side of the river. Every single one had a story to tell, about those who had managed for brief periods to call these places 'home'. But the purposes of this tale, one house stands out in particular, holding in the details of its inhabitants' personal lives.

The house stood as it normally did on Moss Street, enjoying a rather quiet afternoon, at least by Ankh-Morpork standards. Occasionally the muffled sounds of CMOT Dibbler attempting to sell another thing wrapped in a bun could be heard, or the Watch running after an unlicensed thief, followed by the sound of said thief running head long into the wall of polite policing known as Captain Carrot.

But inside this house, the majority of the sound came from the occasional opening and closing of a few doors, and song being hacked away on a battered piano. It was a perfectly nice song as it was, but the songwriter was a bit of a perfectionist and didn't know when to stop beating a dead muse. Dozens of sheets with musical notations scribbled every which way littered the top of piano, several of the pages smudged by absent-mindedness. The player moved his fingers around an impressive set of chords, before groaning in frustration and letting his head fall onto the keyboard. The piano shrieked in protest.

"Are you alright?" The songwriter looked up and around his mussed hair to see his wife standing halfway down the stairs, a look of mild alarm on her features. She looked about as harried as her husband, strands of her bun falling every which way, and dust clinging to most the hems of her dress.

"I'm fine, save for the fact that the muses have abandoned me, leaving me trapped halfway through a piece with just enough to hang myself with." He dramatically played a set of minor chords on the piano, to illustrate his woe.

"And this is different, how?" She grinned as she was rewarded with a glare. Her eyes, while not frozen in pain as they had been for the past two years, did not extend the smile. They were empty, bottomless things, channeling the hole buried in her. He was used to this look about her- it had been a hard time for both of them. They both had their ghosts, locked away under golden keys.

Balancing against the railing, she curled down to look under the piano. "Drat, not there either. Where could she be?" She sat down on the next step up, unsure to be cross or worried. "James, you haven't seen Hooligan, have you? I've been looking all over- she's going to have her kittens any day now…"

"No, Sara, I haven't. Did you check the bedroom? She's been leaving hairballs on my pillows lately." He looked back down at the music in front of him, letting his wife deal with the little menace.

It wasn't that James didn't like the calico cat; after all, it was amusing to watch her bat the keys while he banged out another symphony or curl up on his lap while he read. But, she had a problem with authority, as she was so aptly named; namely, him. Between the hairballs in his slippers and the need to use him as a scratch post, James had come to the conclusion the cat didn't like having to share Sara with him. He put up with it as best her could, though. After all, Hooligan filled a little bit of the hole that had threatened to swallow them both.

Losing an only child was worse than fighting a war in many ways, but the victims often exhibited the same features of anguish.

Sara padded down the steps and turned into the little hallway to the bedroom, but stopped before she got to the doorway. An old floorboard lay broken under a section of the wall, leading into a dark space beyond. It wasn't much, just leaving enough space for a pet to crawl under to the other side.

It had been a room much like the rest of the house when they had bought it. Only pain and despair had been piled up like unwanted furniture, and the room had become to the outside world nothing more than an odd brass keyhole on the wall. Sarah sighed, not wanting to face the sorrow that lay beyond, but knew she'd best get the cat out now and fix the floorboard, so the contents weren't disturbed.

She grasped the key around her neck and gingerly pulled the chain over her head, careful not to catch her hair. There was no doorknob, just a brass keyhole flush against the wall. There was nothing worth stealing in there, anyways, but sometimes you need the barrier to buffer the pain it contained. She twisted the key and pulled the door open slightly, all the while trying to keep herself from bursting into tears.

The former nursery was relatively dark, the only illumination coming from a few magic globes that lined the walls. Forgetting her task for the moment, she stepped past the pile of toys to the small casket at the other end, touching the ebony wood reverently. She was never entirely sure why, but she had suspected the child had not fully understood his fate, and had followed his body with his parents all the way from their homeland, still playing with the shadows. Ghostly hands would tug at her skirt every now and then, and the toys would always be arranged a little differently. For Sara, it was like losing him all over again.

Priests had told her to bury him, Theologians had told her he had moved on, and advisors had told her there were more important things. She knew better, and until he moved on, she would keep him with her.

A mewl collided with her cart of thought and turned it over, scattering dark thoughts about the past back into the recesses of her mind. Looking to the side of a small rocking chair, she could see a limp body shuddering against the wall. Hooligan had just finished giving birth to four small kittens, and was working on the fifth with obvious difficulty. Sarah rolled up her sleeves and sat next to the mother, rubbing her stomach gently. She guided the tiny babes to their mother side, letting them gum her fingers until they found that wasn't a food source. The calico relaxed and turned to her handiwork; the fifth was the last one. The mother nudged it, trying to get it to respond, but no air worked into its lungs. Sara rubbed the tiny belly as Hooligan licked its face, but it was too late.

The room's temperature dropped, and Sarah shivered, recollection telling her that she was not alone. She didn't even jump as the black robes swished beside her, the end of a scythe knocking against the floor.

"Hello, Death."

She rose, still holding the stillborn kitten. The visage of the skull under the hood with its iridescent eyes sent shivers down her back. But she had seen him once, before. After you see Death once, you learn to deal with shivers and the feeling you were being judged.

I WAS HOPING HE WOULD GET THE HANG OF BREATHING, BUT SO IT GOES. Death stroked the head of the stillborn for a moment. YOU ARE MUCH MORE…SUBDUED THAN I REMEMBER, SARA.

"The last time you saw me my only son had just died. I was willing to try anything to get him back. Even," She looked to the silent box in sadness, "face down Death if I had to."

EVEN I CANNOT CONTOL WHEN PEOPLE COME AND GO.

"I know that, now. I didn't then- can you really blame me? You can punish a plague. But…did he understand? I still feel him, on occasion. Is he doomed to wander forever?" A part of her mind was in awe that she was having a conversation with Death that normal people might have with a confessor. "I just don't want him to be alone."

HE DIDN'T KNOW WHAT HAD HAPPENED TO HIM. MOST CHILDREN DO NOT, BUT HE COULD NOT MOVE ON. HE ASKED TO STAY WITH HIS PARENTS. I DID NOT REFUSE; HE WAS TO STAY HERE WITH YOU UNTIL YOU COULD BE REUNITED.

"So he is still here. Oh, gods…" She clutched the small body to her chest, trying not to let the tears of frustration burst out.

NOT ANYMORE.

She turned to face Death, eyes large and confused. "What? I don't understand…"

SOMETIMES IT JUST TAKES A WHILE TO GET BACK, SARA. THANK YOU FOR TAKING FOR CARE OF THE KITTEN. PERHAPS YOU SHOULD BURY IT WITH THE BODY.THEY'VE BOTHHAVE MORE IMPORTANT JOURNEYSAHEAD OF THEM, NOW.

A bony hand patted her shoulder as she stared at the casket, confused. Death was long gone before a spark leapt into her eyes, and a gasp caught in her throat. Slowly, her eyes filled, then overflowed; a kitten skittered away as a drop of saltwater splashed next it.

James found her there, her dress damp from tears. He stood at the doorway for a moment, unsure just how to reach out to her. He touched a shoulder softly, drawing her around to face him. But when she looked at him, her eyes were alive for the first time in ages, understanding passed like a spark between them, her hope becoming theirs. He gripped her in an embrace known only to a very few; those who have gotten back what they thought was impossible.

Had a priest or a wizard been present, they'd be babbling for ages as to the conclusive proof of reincarnation. But all that was there to witness two people's joy was one calico cat and her four kittens.

And they already knew all about that, thank you very much.

To be Continued…..


	2. Knives, Beers and Cigarettes

Now that you've seen them all angsty and sad, it's time to find out how everyone finds out-and a little more about our mysterious ambassador…

Locks and Doors, Chapter 2: Knives, Beers and Cigarettes

* * *

There was no announcement put in the Times, nor gaudy ribbons hung around Moss Street. One would be hard pressed to find anything vaguely celebratory at all, despite the heartwarming news. They knew better, this time around; they were not overly suspicious folk, but they didn't wish to jinx it, all the same. Even so, news like that blessed upon the Myrrna Embassy leaked and flowed to those who might find such news interesting.

The Patrician had noted the difference in demeanor at a conference of imports; he had mentioned it in veiled passing to Commander Vimes in their next weekly meeting. He and Captain Carrot said nothing, as men were prone to do, but a little smile darted between them as they walked back to the Yard. Sybil and Angua had both let out a symphony of coos and awes in delight that caused every man within a hundred feet look for an exit without really knowing why. Sam Vimes had been halfway down the stairs before he caught himself doing so. Carrot still twitched slightly when Angua looked into the windows of a baby store. Even Detritus had begun to talk about pebbles. It was only after one of Igor's russet potatoes had attempted to maul Sergeant Stronginthearm did various members of the Watch return to their normal states of mind; carnivorous starches generally had that effect on people.

Save for a few more of these outbursts, life kept on at a steady pace in Ankh-Morpork. It was a week later a Commander, Captain and Sergeant strolled- well, more accurately, staggered, into the Bucket. It had been a particularly nasty day involving a set of unlicensed thefts that had left a bad taste in Angua's mouth, and the Alchemist's Guild blowing its top (and much of the floors below) again. All of them could use some sort of a drink, and Vimes did not want to go home just yet to the attentions of a four month old child. One of them pushed the door open; all were too tired to really notice who. He had gotten halfway over the threshold before he spun around on his heel, dragging his two officers with him.

"What the hell is he doing here?" Sam Vimes had always gotten far with suspicion. Suspicion kept him alive in a city known for its 'Suicides'.

A large honest brow furled. "Who, sir? It's just the rest of our fellow officers-"

"And an ambassador!"

Carrot and Angua peered through the slightly opened door. Sure enough, a man they had met once before sat huddled in one of the far booths, dimly illuminated by an overhanging lantern that had seen better days. He scowled at several pieces of paper in front of him, alternating between sipping his beer, tapping a cigarette and scribbling something down. Anyone else, looking at him briefly, might have taken him for a Palace clerk.

But Palace clerks generally were not almost as tall as the Captain, nor did they look like they had spent most of their life Outside; if not driving the plow, then at least hitched to it. It was like someone had taken a good tavern brawler, given him a shave and played dress up with him. The clothes fitted on a technical level, but they seemed to belong to a different man. Palace clerks didn't generally frequent the Bucket anyway. They were lucky to frequent anywhere besides the Palace.

Angua frowned, but turned back to her Commander and shrugged. Carrot, however, simply walked through the door towards the booth. The other two were left to exchange horrified looks before scrabbling after him. Too late to sneak out now; when Carrot entered, everyone noticed.

The ambassador, however, only seemed to notice Carrot when a two meter tall shadow hovered at his shoulder. Carefully, he put out the cigarette in the ashtray next to him and looked up nonchalantly. "Hello, Captain, Commander," he nodded to Vimes on the other side of Carrot, "Sergeant. Care to sit down?" He motioned to the rest of the empty booth while sweeping up the paper into a loose stack.

It took a good minute for Vimes' brain to catch up. "Er…"

"Oh, for some God's sake, there's plenty of room, and all the other tables are taken. Anyways, I've never gotten to properly thank you all for what you did for Sara." He motioned to the barkeep, who soon arrived with three beers and a lemonade. "Unfortunately, the Patrician won't let me give you monetary thanks, as it would put him in a bit of a tight spot. Seems he's having a hard enough time with approving you budget- something about a dartboard, if I recall- and the outrage of a foreign dignitary donating to it would put the city leaders in a tiff about loyalties. No idea what he was talking about- if I am to take the word of Lord Downey, Myrrnatians are the furthest removed from the term dignified." There was a bit of lopsided grin there, as if he were reminded of something both pleasant and illegal. "But I think they can overlook a round, at least."

They pushed into the booth, and Vimes frowned. There was a bit of that air that annoyed him about all nobility, but it felt more for his benefit. And hadn't he heard something about Lord Downey getting a black eye for some comment? The official story was a fall, but…. "What are you doing here, anyway? The Bucket's not generally known for attracting the genteel crowds, and, besides…" A small, etiquette-minded voice that he generally ignored kicked him between the eyes, "Er, Congratulations."

James blinked slowly several times, completely lost. Vimes grasped at straws. "Er, you know, your wife's expecting…?" Carrot and Angua nodded happily, caught up with their Commander's line of thinking.

Blue eyes went from the look of one lost to one with a serious tic. "Does EVERYONE know?" There was a grating edge to his voice, that one gets from speaking around clenched teeth. The three looked at him, confused, and a bit worried- had they said the wrong thing?

The ambassador sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose. "We've known for a week! We haven't told anyone yet!"

Ah, thought Vimes; I know that feeling far too well. "Vetinari generally knows everything, whether you want him to or not." He shrugged and sipped his lemonade. "Welcome to Ankh-Morpork."

"Damn. Thank you for your well wishes. Anyways, I needed a beer and a quiet place to think." He motioned to a stack of papers. "Sara kicked me out of the house-er, embassy- again."

It was Vimes and Angua's turn to stare incredulously. Carrot just looked worried, and a bit like a giant kicked puppy.

James looked at their faces, and waved a hand dismissively. "No, nothing like that! Er, Captain, could you stop looking at me like that? I think that's the most disturbing face I've seen. Thank you. No, she just needs some time to herself. So she picked a random thing to have an argument over, then shoves me out the door. I get a chance to get all my nasty habits out of my system, and she gets some quiet time. Works brilliantly to keep us sane, if you ask me."

Vimes nodded. Sybil would probably do the same thing if he stuck around most of the day. Carrot and Angua had a nice excuse every month. People just weren't meant to spend every waking hour with each other. Hells, Sargeant Colon and Mrs. Colon had worked it out perfectly, working different shifts.

He was struck then on the fact he was having a conversation he _would_ normally have with Colon or another member of the Watch with an ambassador. Something was definitely off kilter, here.

"What was the argument about, if you don't mind me asking?" Angua peered over the rim of her glass.

Whatever James's answer was, it was lost in sound of the Bucket's door smashing against the wall. Two large men with crossbows surveyed the crowd, before the burlier of the two addressed their audience. "Nobody move! This is a robbery!"

Everyone in the Bucket sighed. Angua groaned, and went to unbuckle her breastplate. The other man swiveled to face her. "HE SAID DON'T-"

Vimes wasn't exactly sure what happened next. One moment, the two unlicensed thieves were shouting at Angua, the next, they're grabbing for the foot long, stiletto, _assassin_ knives sprouting from their left shoulders, the strings of their crossbows sliced neatly in half. Angua was still sitting in the booth, mouth open and hand at her breastplate clasp. He couldn't really see much else, because the ambassador's extended arm was in Carrot's grasp.

Vimes looked from James's hand to the two thieves now collapsed on the floor. He didn't even see him move. Carrot had, _he must have_, but he'd only been able to grab him after he'd thrown two. Visions of Cruces' death flashed through his head- Carrot was fast for a big man, and he'd only gotten the man's arm _after_ he'd thrown both. He turned to gape at the man sitting next to him.

James frowned at Carrot, his gaze cold. "Captain, please let go of my arm."

Carrot looked to Vimes, who nodded warily, before releasing the wrist.

"Thank you." The ambassador rubbed his wrist momentarily before moving past Vimes and standing up. He walked over to the feet of the two men, looking at them disdainfully. "Anyone going on duty soon?"

A few hands rose hesitantly at the bar. "Right. I'll leave them for you then." He stooped down, and grabbed the handles of each blade. With a swift jerk, and a strangled scream from the thieves, James was wiping the bloody tips on one man's shirt. With a single movement that spoke of many years of practice, he placed them back under his sleeves.

He turned, as if to return to his seat, but with one swift movement grabbed both man by their collars, one in each hand. He pulled them close to his face. "You're going to go with the nice Watchmen, right? And you're going to tell them _everything_."

Vimes couldn't see James's face; his back was to the booth. But judging from the faces of the two thieves, he wasn't sure he wanted to. The voice was a cold bitterness that belonged to those of quiet bloodthirsty rage. Just the snarl alone told of a pile of dead bodies just waiting to be discovered.

With a final jerk, the two men's head smashed together, before they were thrown outside and the door closed. James looked at his hands unpleasantly before wiping them on a handkerchief. He slid back into the booth, and picked up his beer as if nothing happened. After a moment, he looked over the rim at his three table companions' stares.

"What?"


	3. Speak Your Mind

**Due to unforseen circumstances, James will be the one responding to the reviews**.

James pulls out a small paper. He reads through the paper quickly, before pausing. In the fan fiction world, it seems as if half a dozen voices cried out, and then said "What the Fek?"

He clears his throat. "Erm, Anyways…"

"Madame Frosteh, Thank you kindly for your kind review. Yes, our lives our random, but how was I to know Lord Downey bruised easily? Also, I am to inform you that the management is waiting impatiently for your sequel, and that more…"

He pauses, looking at his notes, before turning off-stage. "You don't honestly want me to say this, do you? No need to threaten me! I just wanted to make sure they know I'm not the one asking for this…" He turns back to the audience, shaking his head.

"The management would like possibility more relations between the two fuzzies, and perhaps the inclusion of puppies."

"Next, Madame Egleriel, thank you as well for your review, although your fanfiction scares us deeply. Um, on a personal note, I have no intentions of ever killing my wife, and, erm…don't hurt me?" He ducks behind the paper for a moment, wincing. Seeing nothing is forthcoming, he straightens up. "As for 'Hello, Death", the reasoning behind this will appear later. Needless to say, she's seen Death numerous times before, and one of the last times she did so involved her attempting to…bargain with him. Needless to say, she's not on the level to invite him up for tea, but she _is_ foolhardy like that. I know. I married her."

"Last but not least, Mr. Blank Ned. Ask and ye shall receive, no? But the management would like to point out, you got your wish, now where's that filk about Carrot? Hmmmmm? And I'd personally like to point out to the audience that all flames will be used to prod writer's buttock. Or…"

He pauses, then stomps off-stage and pulls back the curtain. The Author, Sara and Angua look up from their current task, which seems to involve watching cheesy eighties movies and painting each others nails. James pulls back in shock for a moment before shaking his head. "Do you really plan to use the flames to burn Carrot's uniform, so Angua can have a day off with him?"

The Author looks up from her current task of giving Angua a little henna tattoo which reads in Klatch, 'If you can read this, Carrot, you should consider letting Angua have her way with you.' "Of course! You at least own more that one style of knickers. Don't even get me started on that damned 'Protective'. The poor girl's never even been taken on a proper date!" She pulls out a little plushie that bears an uncanny resemblance to said Captain. She sticks lots of little pins in a cough certain area. Somewhere, Captain Carrot begins to shift uncomfortably.

James' begins to back away, right eye twitching. "Erm….That'sallfolksuntilnexttimeOHGODSI'MGONNADIE!"

* * *

Locks and Doors, Chapter 3:

Speak your Mind

* * *

It wasn't particularly hard to make Sam Vimes speechless. Carrot still held the record of six times in one conversation, but the Patrician wasn't far behind. Vimes had suspected at one point that there was a scoreboard somewhere, where Carrot, Vetinari, and Sybil were furiously attempting to outdo the rest. He had dismissed this thought, but only after realizing the idea of the three of them arguing over tea and biscuits had been rejected by his brain as probable as the Patrician wearing frilly pink undershorts.

Now he was having one of those speechless moments. His mouth was open, but his brain was having a hard time figuring out what to say. It wasn't due to lack of something to say, mind you, but there were so many things to ask they'd all gotten stuck in the pipe. Judging by the faces of his fellow watchmen, he was no the only one suffering from this affliction.

The ambassador of Myrrna drank his beer quietly, waiting for one of them to regain their facilities. He was biting the inside cheek to keep a straight face- between the Captain and the Commander, they were managing to mimic most of the know fish in the Circle Sea. He avoided Angua's gaze; she had given up trying to ask anything and begun to frown at him, much like his wife did when he had done something wrong, but she had yet to figure out _what_. He wanted to make some comment about flies and such, but he had a feeling it would break the spell that seemed to envelop the table.

In Vimes' mind, a single thought had managed to worm down to his mouth. "Who the bloody hell are you?"

James put down his tankard. "James Ormata Cooper, current ambassador to Ankh-Morpork from Myrrna. Age, 29 years; married to Sara Cooper, nee Dracos." He stared impassively at Vimes.

"You haven't always been an ambassador, have you?" The good natured attitude of the table was gone, Vimes realized.

"You haven't always been a duke, have you?" James countered. Something in his body language told Vimes that he was beginning to tread in territory marked with 'Turn around, you bloody git!' signs; many of them unfinished with drag marks underneath them. Still, when Sam Vimes's patented suspicion arose, any attempt to stop it was like banging a charging camel on the head.

Carrot, however, spoke first, his forehead wrinkled. "Technically, sir, under the Arms Act of 1687, we'd have to arrest you for use of unlicensed weaponry in a confined area…"

"Doesn't both article VXI of that Act and the Diplomatic Laws and Ordinances Act VII resolve me from that?" James undid his sleeve button and slid the dress shirt up to his elbow. Five long knives rested in a black holder stamped with a royal seal; Vimes could only assume this was from Myrrna. The ambassador flicked his wrist quickly and the first knife sprang out to where it could be grasped.

Carrot paused for a moment. "You are correct, sir. Though it would have been preferable if you had shown the seal before you threw them." Angua was trying not to cringe; Carrot sometimes had the uncanny ability to sound like a mother chiding an errant youngster when speaking to even the most hardened criminals.

James shrugged. "I apologize, Captain. I did not expect I'd actually use them."

Vimes still had his eyes on the knives. "Those are assassin's knives."

"I think not!" indifference was replaced with a hint of outrage. "These are throwing knives. I hardly think that the Assassins Guild has a patent on these. Anyways, these are thicker and have different balances than those stilettos Lord Downey carries, the bloody wanker." Vimes found himself nodding; he and the ambassador were part of the exclusive, wonderful club of people that had caused physical harm to Downey.

Carrot, whom had yet to join the club, or even imagined doing such a thing (as far as Vimes could tell), looked confused. "Don't they have official assassins in Myrrna? I seem to recall reading that there were…."

James shook his head, and stroked the blue stone ring in his right earlobe. "We have _one_ sanctioned assassin in Myrrna. The Royal Assassin mostly keeps assassins from _getting_ to the throne than the other way around. She's not one to cross."

Angua sputtered in her beer. "It's a she?"

"As far as I can tell. Or at least, she was one. The Royal Assassin is sort of a gender neutralizing job."

Angua nodded, "Sort of like being a watchman."

Carrot looked at her for a moment, but turned away before she noticed.

An hour later, the four of them found themselves outside the Bucket. The unlicensed thieves were gone, dragged off to the nearest watch house. Vimes held out a swamp dragon hatching to the ambassador. He nodded thanks before lighting his cigarette.

The Commander of the Watch put the swamp dragon back in his pocket; he'd need to return the poor thing to the pens before Sybil noticed. "Captain, would you be so kind as to walk the ambassador home? No point in letting another diplomatic mishap go on under our noses." Carrot nodded. Whether that involved him as the victim or the aggressor, Vimes didn't say.

James said nothing, and Vimes suddenly wondered if leaving the man alone with anyone was a good idea. Then again, Carrot wasn't just _anyone_. So Vimes swallowed his unease and waved them off. Time to rescue his son from the clutches of womanhood, he mused.

Nothing was said for several blocks, as James walked ahead; Carrot seemed to be struggling with something. Angua tried to catch his eye, but he just smiled and shook his head, going back to his internal monologue. She sighed, and glared at the back of the ambassador's head. Something about him set off a shiver within her. For all his outward appearances, nothing was particularly interesting about him; he smelled of ink, paper, must and normal human smells…but there was an edge to it that bit at her olfactory like a rusty razor. She just couldn't put her finger on it; it almost smelled like magic- but not like that came from the University. It was a rawer, wilder thing, hidden amongst the depths of his person.

Whatever it was, it made part of her want to slink up to him with her tail between her legs, exposing her throat in submission. It wasn't a pleasant feeling. She sighed and realized she was ready to collapse. Time to go home.

Angua felt bad leaving Carrot alone with him- but Carrot could take care of himself, as she was too tired to deal with the jangle of her nerves. "Er, this is where I leave you two. Thank you very much, sir, and congratulate your wife for me." She bowed to James, then turned to Carrot to give his hand a slight squeeze. To her surprise, he gave her a small peck on the cheek in return. Normally he wasn't one for public affection. She searched for a reason in his face, but if there was something he wanted to say, he wasn't showing it. She turned down the road to her flat, trying desperately not to watch the two men disappear.

First there were four, then there were three, and now there were two.

"Hm, nice girl. Are you two seeing each other?"

"Oh, we have an Understanding, sir."

James stopped walking, but didn't look back to the captain. "Excuse me?"

Carrot looked up, confused. "Um, I said we have an Understanding, sir."

"I thought that's what you said." He didn't look at Carrot, but focused intent on the wall to his left. Looks couldn't kill (1), but it was enough to make some of the gargoyles scrabble away. "She's so in love with you she's fighting all her natural instincts to keep away, just to stay with you, and all you can call it is an Understanding?" He took a drag from the cigarette. "You really are an ass, aren't you."

Carrot looked affronted. He'd been called many things in his rather short lifetime, but generally they were pleasant or of such subtle nature they went through one ear and right out the other. This, however, even metaphor challenged captain could understand. "Now wait a minute, sir…"

"Yes?" The ambassador turned on the balls of his feet to face him.

Carrot was at a loss for what to say. Somewhere, quite possibly from behind that steel door that some knew loomed in his mind, a voice pointed out that the man was right. "I care about her a lot…" he said weakly.

"Look, I bet you do. You also care about your fellow watchmen, and the people in Ankh-Morpork. Do you have Understandings with them as well?"

"What? No! I…" Carrot never had to admit defeat before. This just wasn't _fair_. What did he ever do to the ambassador? Sure, Mister Vimes had attempted to question him about this every once and a while, but usually gave up after a minute or two. Everyone generally gave up after a few minutes of listening to him. Carrot didn't argue, he just let people argue with themselves.

"Look, I'm just asking." The ambassador sighed, releasing a stream of smoke that seemed to have a life of its own. "It's not easy, is it? You're good man, Carrot, but honestly? From I've seen and heard, well, it seems to me you're a tad bit scared."

"I'm not scared, sir." Carrot's face was that of silent anger, the calm before a storm.

James stood his ground. "Everyone is scared of something. Are you telling me you're not scared in the least that someday she's going to run? Not scared that she's going to go off, without a so much of a word, breaking your heart? Worried that if you try and get too close, and let her in, she'll hurt you?" There was a silence that stretched between the two men large enough to fit A'Tuin. "Or is there another reason you've left her hanging like that; let yourself hanging out there too? Its still going to hurt when one of you loses your grip. Nobody's perfect, Carrot; not you, not me, not Angua, not Commander Vimes. Hell, Vetinari's probably got more than a few problems of his own."

A sigh escaped Carrot like a death rattle, and his giant shoulders sagged at a loss. The older man patted his shoulder, no anger or pity on his face, but a look of understanding. "How do you know all this?"

James shrugged, not out of indifference, but of past awkwardness. "Because ten years ago, I did the same thing."

Carrot blinked at that for a moment, before smiling weakly. "Oh."

They walked on in silence for while longer, listening to the relative silence of Ankh-Morpork during the hours known only to watchmen and thieves.

"What was that?" James turned to look at the taller man.

Carrot paused before repeating himself. "Why are the king and queen of Myrrna in Ankh-Morpork?"

The shorter man turned abruptly, alarm spreading across his features. "How did you-…We're not…" He pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed deeply. "What makes you say that?"

"I borrowed a book on the history of Myrrna from the Librarian." Carrot shrugged. "It had some interesting things to say about the monarchy there. Is it true the king has to drink the blood of his forbearers to accept the crown?"

"What! Um, no, I think that was a rumor spread by the Duke of Quirm. I take it you've been reading Peransantoles? I was wondering how you knew about our assassin."

"I didn't think so, sir. But he did spend a great deal of time talking about it."

"Try Armana's History of the Circle Sea; Peransantoles never even went to Myrrna." There was a pause. "I was never a king, Captain."

"I saw the engraving on the portrait, sir."

When they had met for the first time, he had shown them why Sara and he wore keys. Angua had closed her eyes after she saw the coffin. Vimes had focused on the portrait itself. Only Carrot had noticed the silver crown and certain words, like "Prince", on the frame.

"Damn, you would see that, wouldn't you?" James folded his hands behind his head. "But I'm not lying. I never was a king, Captain." He held up a hand to Carrot's unvoiced protest. "A consort to the crown, however…"

"Oh. I think I understand, sir." Carrot scratched the back of his neck absently. "You didn't answer my question, sir."

James nodded. "Because…well, Sometimes personal _is_ the same as important." He looked over to the adopted dwarf. "Now, I've heard rumor the King of Ankh-Morpork is running around as a watchman, Captain…."

"Don't know anything about that, sir. And you can call me Carrot, sir."

"Ah." He fished in his vest pocket for another cigarette. "Carrot, then, if you call me sir one more time, I will deck you, laws and ordinances be damned. I have a name, just like everyone else. Understood?"

"I think so."

"Good." They walked on, talking about uninteresting things, like weather and what they thought actually was in CMOT Dibbler's buns.

"Uh, sir…I think we just passed your…" Carrot had enough to slap a hand over his mouth before something connected HARD with his left eye. "_Ow_!"

"I _told_ you, didn't I? Now come in, I'm sure we have some raw steak you can put on that."

To Be Continued...

(1). Except for a few occasions in recorded history where reality bucked the trend. The last known happened ten years ago, when Mrs. Hangslow found Mr. Hangslow with the girl from shipping.

* * *

So yes, I had to end this chapter on a silly note. Too much angst makes me cranky. And I always wanted to punch Carrot for being so danged nice.

The relationship conversation was inspired by one in Hopeless Savages: Ground Zero, where one character figures out the sentence "If you love someone, you will set them free" is a crock a shite. People are already free- you need to hold on to them for dear life.

* * *

Fade out to James, in shock, having his hair braid by Sara and The Author. Angua is seated on the floor, experimenting with various varnishes on his toes. A single whimper escapes. 


	4. Intimate Thorns

The Author wanders onto the stage, Vetinari's cane in hand. "Hullo, all! Welcome back to Locks and Doors. I'm still reeling that you people haven't tried to lynch me for my horrid attempt of slapstick the last couple of chapters. Or for beating up Carrot. I apologize, but he really needs to be beaten repeatedly with the _Garden of Delights_. Or a riding crop." She glances offstage before continuing.

"Egleriel, sorry to brand you. James is just always jumpy around werewolf deaths, the wuss." She rolls her eyes. "And keep up with the conspiracy theories! They keep you from seeing that I'm running completely on a plot-what-plot? series of silliness."

"Frosteh, I'm not worthy. And currently, I think Angua's waiting for a flame to brand Carrot with. Mrs. Palm's girls are getting uppity again, I hear. Anyways, anything I can do to keep you writing, I will attempt. Yay for C/A!"

"Stephen, thank you for your kind words. Again, I know the line sucks, I'm too lazy to change it."

"ihadanepiphany, thank you for the drive by review. I think."

There are the sounds of a muffled yelp offstage. James walks over to the Author and hands her a note. She scans it, and her eye begins to twitch. "You're kidding." He shakes his head. "We're about to start! And how'd Carrot get into the S&M closet anyway?" James shrugs.

"Damn. Ok folks, I have to leave you. It seems that Carrot and Angua are barricaded in the green room for an Out of Character moment." She twirls the cane menacingly, and walks offstage.

* * *

Locks And Doors, Chapter 4

Intimate Thorns

* * *

It was a situation all assassins trained for; waiting within the shadows of several buildings until the proper time. This was no exception, for his instructions had been explicit. Strike only when both are home. _We need to send a message. We know where they live, we can control their lives._

It didn't matter that there had been a setback when he found only one home; it was only a matter of time before the other returned. Assassins were good at waiting.

In the meantime, he watched the woman; she occasionally traversed the small garden in the back of the house, humming some nonsensical tune. He had held his breath out of practice, but there was no way she could see his spot, hidden on the top of the wall, or have heard his breath over the noises of the city. She would be clueless to his presence until it was much too late.

For all his careful observation, the assassin failed to notice the rose vine next to him stir slightly, restless.

The door handle turned on the Myrrna Embassy with careful precision; it was imperative that no one heard. There was a soft slick noise as the lock slipped out. The door creaked into the darkened room hesitantly, as if expecting to be caught. When no repercussions came, a sigh of relief escaped from the would-be intruder. The door swung in further, casting moonlight into the front room and outlining the figure of a man. He took a soft step over the threshold…

…And was promptly soaked by a bucket upended onto his head. He sputtered a few curses that were both highly colorful and rather descriptive, before wiping the hair from his eyes and blinking against the light of several lamps that were being turned on.

"Sara!"

James, now significantly wetter than he had been, scowled at his attacker. She continued to relight the lamps of the receiving room, as if nothing had happened. "Hello, dear. How was the pub?" She shook the match out and smiled at him. The bucket rocked at the end of her fingers, like a purse.

He looked down at his vest and dress shirt, shaking his arms in a futile attempt to remove the offending liquid. All he managed was to flop a wet piece of hair into his eye. "What the bloody hell was that for!"

"I've told you half a dozen times you can't come into the house smelling of stout and cigarettes. So I decided to take matters into my own hands." She put the bucket down by the door frame. "Oh, hello, Captain Carrot! I hope my husband hasn't been too much of a trouble." She shot her husband a look, asking him why a Watchman had followed him home, before smiling back at their visitor. "Do come in!"

James was still looking at her incredulously. "You're complaining about the way I _smell_? Lovely, have you gone outside and taken a whiff of this fair city?"

"That's out there. This is in here, and I think I have a fair say on what I have to put up with." She shoved him lightly towards the bed room as he pulled the vest and shirt over his head.

Carrot felt quite out of place in this careful dance of married life. He'd seen his commander interact with Lady Sybil, of course, but that was hardly a good control to compare others to. Then again, what little he did know about these two should have tipped him off that they were hardly normal, anyway. He stood in a corner, trying to be unassuming, and failing in the ways only a six and a half foot red head can. "Er…"

"Oh, that's right. Do we have any raw meat to spare?" James called out from the confines of his shirt, which was currently attempting to remind its wearer that it was not made to be pulled over one's head.

Sara looked suspiciously at her husband's retreating form. "Do we have- what the blazes do you need that for?" She turned back to Carrot, only then noticing the slight swelling of his left eye. "Excuse me, Captain." She smiled at him graciously before picking up the empty bucket at his feet and sent it hurtling towards James. He had just managed to free his head from his shirt when it caught him straight in the jaw. "You punched the poor Captain of the Watch!"

James rubbed his jaw painfully. "Poor? I warned him, fair and square. So would you stop picking on me?"

Sara looked back to Carrot. "Is this true?"

He nodded absently, eyes still on the retreating figure of the ambassador; specifically, the collection of thick, nasty scars that laced the man's upper torso. Scars one would normally get from running into sharp, pointy things repeatedly. He returned his attentions to Sara when she tugged at his arm, leading him to an overstuffed armchair.

"Sit down here for a minute while I get the poultice together, would you? I apologize for my husband's behavior. James is… well, he's not much for gentlemanly behavior. He's a bit of a work in process." She began opening several mason jars in the small doorway between the sitting room and what Carrot could only assume was a kitchen. "Oh, drat. I need to pop out to the back, seems I'm out of fresh frostbright. I'm so sorry, Captain."

Carrot's protests against assistance were unheeded by the raven haired lady, who knocked on the bedroom door. "Dearheart, I'm out to the garden for a moment. Just need to pick a plant and deal with an unwanted visitor. Be a decent man and entertain your victim, will you?" Not waiting for an answer, she sang a string of nonsense words as she stepped out to the back.

James leaned out of the bedroom to look out to the closed door, a towel wrapped around his shoulders. "Unwanted visitor?" He asked no one in particular.

The assassin grinned at his luck. Another hour and he would have had to come back tomorrow. The woman was the preferred target, and now she was coming to him. He shifted the crossbow into position.

The strains of her little tune drifted by his ears. Was she communicating by some foreign language? He concentrated on the words for a moment, listening for a message…

"En nim blad mos mof mor mitta tang, netille tang litterar…" Bah, nothing more than nonsense. Too bad they were to be her last, at least for a while.

But as he cocked the crossbow, the happy tone of her song seemed to take on a slightly sinister tone, her sway a little more rhythmic.

He didn't even know he had lowered the crossbow until the rose vine wrapped around his empty palm, snaking up his arms.

The last words he heard was spoken in Morporkian, but he was unsure if it was directed at him or the thousand of thorny vines that now surrounded him.

"**Take root**."

Carrot looked around the sitting room, a bit uncomfortable in such a foreign room. Unlike his room at the Watch, this one was lined with little pieces of history of the owners of the house. Dozens of books he had never heard of lined a bookcase; some of history, music and stories from all over the disc. Intermingled were several framed iconographs, mostly of people he had never seen before, caught in casual moments that spoke of great intimacy.

One, larger than the rest, was a formal picture at what must have been their wedding. James, in what could be taken for a soldier's uniform of complete black, looked to the camera with a wise smile that seemed to threaten to break into a grin at any moment. On his arm, Sara's grin was wider, dressed in a white silk dress that was rather plain in design but overwhelming in embroidery. Surrounding them were those focused upon in the other iconographs, each smiling at the couple in the center. No one wore a crown, but there was no need; even in the iconograph one could feel a power that these people held.

The silence around Carrot was broken by a tiny noise behind him. He turned as it sounded again, coming from the battered piano. Now, he was by no means familiar with such musical instruments, but he was quite sure they generally did not make sounds on their own without human assistance. It sounded again, and he was quite sure pianos did not sound like that. He peeked under the lifted cover.

It took him a moment to notice the source the sound was a small ball of orange fluff balanced haphazardly on two brakes. Further inspection revealed it to be a kitten, very young and not very used to moving. It sniffed experimentally at his hand, then gummed an index finger. Finding it satisfactory, it allowed Carrot to pick it up gingerly.

"They all seem to like the piano- seems to be a cat thing." He started at the ambassador's voice.

The older man sat down at the piano's stool, playing a few notes carefully before taking a small wrench to adjust the strings around the kitten's former spot. He then began to let his fingers dance out a soft little tune. The kitten purred in Carrot's large hand. "Seems it's the only thing I can do properly in their eyes. Anything else and I end up with claw marks in my shirts." James shrugged.

"Here we go. Just keep this on your eye for an hour and it won't even discolor." Sara walked into the sitting room, carrying a small cloth steeped in an herbal concoction.

Carrot placed the kitten in Sara's hands and thanked her, and they said their goodbyes. Sara promised she'd stop by the Watch house, to properly thank everyone. As the Captain set off down the road, James turned to his wife. "So, about this unwanted visitor?"

She smiled a smile that seemed more at home on an Agony Aunt. "Oh, taken care of for now. But you'll have to take the trash out later."

He balked. "Surely you didn't…"

Her hand made a cutting motion through the air. "Hardly. But even Downey needs to learn that roses have thorns." She turned back into the house, and he followed, the handle clicking back into place.

To be continued….

The 'nonsense words' are actually fake words lifted straight from 'Grey Ghost' by Mike Doughty.


	5. Letting the Cats Out

Sara, dressed in a sunflower blue dress and a white apron walks into view. She waves politely. "I guess it's my turn to respond to all the wonderful reviews we've been getting. We really can't thank you all enough for enjoying us. The Author is a review whore, and you folks have got her through a good deal of her graduate workload lately." She puts her hands on her hands and glares offstage. "Why she's writing about us and not getting ahead on her papers is a mystery." She pulls out a paper from her apron, only to find the kitten from chapter four caught on the end. She sighs, and puts the kitten back in the pocket. "Onto the reviews…"

"Elgeriel, I'm very good to my plants. They return the favor. And lovely, you only figured out The Author has a sick mind? You have been reading the rest of this story, right?

"Frosteh, sorry about the yoghurt. We're glad they're dying happy, at least, but we'd much prefer if they were writing more stories. The Author's a bit of a diehard now, and anything remotely C/A gets her all happy. I have to admit they are adorable; although I'm not sure why Angua's leading him around by a dog collar backstage. Something about reversing roles…

"Blank Ned, you poor, poor soul; I'm sorry you had to witness that. We've tried soap, bleach- everything, really, and it's still horribly filthy. But I resent the idea I'd scar my own husband- well, maybe if he really deserved it, but still. I'd like to point out that both this chapter and his picture on the Author's deviantART site explain where he got them. I hope the Tempest went well! James and I are actually partially inspired by characters from the play.

"Ihadanepiphany, don't apologize! It's the review that counts!"

Sara puts her hands on her hips and frowns at the audience. "As for the rest of you lot, review! It is important The Author knows the good, bad and the ugly! It might keep her mind off letting Angua runs out of character and writing a C/A PWP. And trust me, it's for the best."

Suddenly, The Author runs across the stage, still holding Vetinari's cane. Not far behind Vetinari running after her. "I told you he was faking it!" She manages to say before she's hit from behind with an inkwell. Vetinari picks up his cane and walks past Sara.

"You didn't see anything."

Locks and Doors

Chapter 5: Letting the Cats Out

Commander Samuel Vimes stood at attention in front of Patrician's desk. His face had the schooled expression he normally had when something was bothering him. He didn't say anything; he never said what bothered him- it just wasn't his style. That never stopped Vetinari raising questions, of course; it was part of the political waltz they danced, although Sam tried his best run off to the punch bowl. Vetinari glanced up from the latest figures.

"At ease, Sir Samuel; is something bothering you?" Vimes grunted noncommittally in the back of his throat. Vetinari tried again. "Something to do with the events of the Bucket last night?"

Vimes let out a sigh he had unknowingly held in. He'd never know exactly how Vetinari found out everything that went on among the streets of Ankh- Morpork. "Something's off about the Myrrnatian Ambassador in my opinion, sir. I had Captain Carrot walk him last night and he had the audacity to hit one of my officers!" Then there was Carrot's description of all those scars… "And Carrot mentioned what the Ambassador's previous occupation."

That caused Vetinari to raise an eyebrow, a rare occurrence indeed. "Which previous occupation, Sir Samuel? And may I ask if the Captain is pressing charges?"

Vimes grumbled. "No, Carrot said something about mitigating circumstances-wait a minute, what did you mean 'which occupation'?"

The Patrician let his hands steeple in front of him. "It seems that Myrrna creates excellent weavers- fabric, tapestries, music and stories. Officially, the ambassador is a former royal musician, and his wife is a niece of the current King and Queen. Never mind the fact that the King was an only child."

Vimes tilted his head conspiratorially. "And unofficially?"

Vetinari shuffled a couple of papers. "What do you know of Myrrna, Commander?" Vimes shrugged. Anything beyond the realms of Ankh-Morpork's cobblestones was of little interest to him. "Myrrna is a country well stocked in natural resources, with plenty of fertile ground and mineral resources. And it has never been _successfully invaded_. It seems that they possess a sort of resource that we here in Ankh-Morpork have long championed, Sir Samuel."

Vimes frowned, his copper's brain trying to comprehend what the point was. It wasn't that people were as bad as they could be, or followed mob rule…hell, anything could be done given the right amount…wait… "Everything has a price?"

"My, my, you can be clever when you put your mind to it, Sir Samuel. They happen to have the foremost guild of mercenaries in the entirety of the Disc. And, until eight years ago, the unofficial head of this guild was a young but terribly brilliant fighter who went by the name Shadow Wolf. His real name, however, was a closely guarded secret among the guild, but after some persuasion my sources mentioned a name you might be familiar with."

"James Cooper." Vimes groaned. This was the last thing he needed. "I knew he was so good to be true. So we have the Myrrna version of our Lord Downey on our hands?"

The Patrician chose not to look up at Vimes. "Now, Lord Downey is an important social leader and helps provide a necessary service for the citizens of our city, Sir Samuel. However, it seems that the Ambassador has no illusions about the grandeur of mercenary work. I believe he's even quoting at putting them on equal footing as the guild of Seamstresses. Both sell their bodies for money, they're just expected to do different things with it. It seems he has this view for assassins as well, which I believe Lord Downey took great offense to."

"Ah," was all that Vimes said, suddenly understanding how Downey might have actually acquired that black eye. He pondered this for a moment. "Well, at least that's a bit of relief, isn't it? I don't know if I could take two of them, sir."

Vetinari shook his head lightly and met Vimes's gaze. "Hardly, Sir Samuel. With men like Downey, it's easy enough to make them feel important. The men you really have to beware are those who know exactly who they are."

………

Somewhere within the bowels of the Guild of Assassins, Lord Downey was holding in barely controlled rage. "What did you say!"

The younger assassin winced at Downey's tone. "Early this morning, a rider dropped a package of with the novices on gate duty. They assumed it was official business- he was dressed all in black, sir- so they never looked at his face...well, the package turned out to be Borgis. He's in bad shape, sir; you'd really have to see it yourself…"

Downey waved a hand. He'd seen Borgis as soon as word had reached him. The poor lad looked like he'd been in the middle of a vampire feeding frenzy. The Guild's doctor had been amazed he was still alive; whatever had pierced him was incredibly controlled.

But that's not what riled Downey. Assassins were often hurt on the job; Vimes had managed to whittle down many of his best. No, what bothered him had been the fact the rider had dared to dress in all black, the assassin's color. There was no question in his mind whom it had been. The worst touch, though, had been the fire and ice rose tucked under Borgis's crossed arms. The Myrrnatians might as well have signed a rude note along with him; the roses were well known to be native to country.

No one got away with insulting the Assassins Guild twice. Once got you a warning; a loved one grievously maimed, a wound to one's person. But to do it twice, in such a fashion…Downey's blood boiled.

Vetinari was going to hear about this. At length.

………

"He did WHAT?"

Carrot winced. Angua had gotten close to the pitch that shattered glass and eardrums. And after those on desk duty had gotten wind of Carrot's story and saw Angua stalking towards his desk, they had left his eardrums to suffer alone. They weren't necessarily the best and the brightest of Ankh-Morpork, but they were smart enough to know when Angua had a bone to pick with someone, butting between them was a matter of Suicide. "He did warn me…"

Angua leaned in, leaving little more than an inch between them, and smiled the grin that had loosened many a bladder amongst the unlicensed thief population. "Well, I'm warning YOU that I'm feeling rather murderous right now, and I'm not feeling very picky."

"As much as I agree my husband deserve a good whacking every now and then, I'd prefer you did leave him in the land of the living." Angua spun around, startled at the sound of another voice; she slipped and nearly sent herself sprawling into Carrot's lap.

Sara Cooper stood with a hand on her hip in the doorway of the Watch House, a wiry smile creeping up the side of her face. The other hand held a rather large basket that swung slightly under its own weight. She gave the other woman a look that suggested that she was old enough not to threaten others' husbands. "If it makes you feel better, he did meet the hard end of a wooden bucket soon afterward. I'm sorry for intruding, but nobody was at the door, and you're audible from the street." She shifted her grip on the basket and proffered it towards the bewildered Watchmen. "I brought a thank you present. It's not much, but politics won't let me do much else."

Angua blinked at her, trying to take it all in. Slowly, a chuckle escaped, which quickly cascaded into laughter that had her wiping her eyes. Sara and Carrot looked on, confused. Angua tried to compose herself. "I'm sorry, it just hit me how absurd this all is." She helped place the basket on a table, then held out her hand. "We've never been properly introduced. I'm Sergeant Angua."

Sara shook the outstretched hand, before her expression. "I remember; you helped me home. I'm sorry I caused you all so much trouble…" She looked away, blush coloring her cheeks slightly.

"Look, don't worry about it. I'm just glad everything turned out alright." Angua shrugged her shoulders and grinned at the other woman. Sara met her gaze, and a smile broke through the far away expression.

Carrot wasn't very good when it came to understanding women, and he wasn't sure what was going on right now. The basket caught his attention; more specifically, the slight movement of something underneath the lid. Curious, he peered inside. "Oh, hello again."

Sara and Angua look at him, confused, before looking for themselves. Sara blanched and slapped her forehead. "How the bloody hells did it get in there?"

The werewolf and human sides of Angua were in an argument on how to respond to the orange kitten no bigger than her fist, rubbing against Carrot's outstretched hand. The woman won out. "Awwwwww! It's so cute!" She gingerly let the tiny pink nose sniff her fingers.

Now, despite long lived stereotypes, it's simply not true that cats always hate dogs. Certainly, adult cats and dogs fight over territory and mutual food sources, but that's merely on a professional level. Cats really could care less, as long as you give them a good sunny spot and plenty of food. This kitten was no different, and was quite happy with anything new. Angua was having a hard time trying not to giggle as its miniature whiskers tickled her fingers.

Gingerly, she picked it up as Sara moved to unpack the basket. The ambassador's wife smiled at the image of a grown watchwoman at the mercy of an overgrown dust bunny. "Our cat had kittens a while back. How the little rascal managed to sneak in there without me seeing, I'll never know. He seems to be rather fond of you, Captain."

Carrot blinked at Sara, then at the kitten. Angua grinned and held the kitten up to his eye level. "Well, of course, they're both redheads!" She was desperately trying not to laugh at the kitten's attempt to bat at Carrot's nose.

Sara bit lip and looked back at the packages of food to try to compose herself. Managing for a moment, she gently took the kitten from Angua's hands. "Well, it's settled, then." She looked at the kitten face to face. "I dub thee Carrot."

The original Carrot opened his mouth to protest, but all that he got was out was a yelp as Angua trod on his toes. "You don't have a say in this. _I_ think it's perfect!" Carrot shut his mouth obediently. He was losing a lot of arguments lately.

"Well, I'd best be going. If I leave James alone for too long, he usually lets something catch fire." She ducked her head, and smiled. "Please stop by at time. I-we owe you a huge amount of thanks."

………

Commander Vimes returned to the watch house to find various officers helping themselves to a small feast laid out on one of the mess hall tables. He wasn't really surprised when Cheri told him who had been responsible. He wandered into Carrot's office, where his two senior officers were attempting to make a small dent in the paperwork. Vimes had to admit he was surprised that Carrot looked rather distressed as they saluted. "What's wrong with him?" He asked Angua, who told him.

It was very, very hard not to laugh. But Vimes remembered what he had learned from the Patrician. "We'd best keep an eye on them. You know what I always say."

"'Always act stupid'?" Carrot supplied. Angua rolled her eyes.

"No, but that may apply. I was thinking more along the lines of 'suspect everyone'."

Carrot frowned. "Of what?"

Vimes wasn't sure, himself. "Everything, I guess. There's something not right here, I'll be damned if we get sucker punched. Now, I'll be in my office."

Once he was safely inside and alone, he let himself snigger at the expense of Carrot.


	6. Reading Tea Leaves

The curtain rises on the Audience participation stage, revealing the Author and James arguing.

James prods the Author in the shoulder. "Why do I have to respond to the reviewers? I've already gone!"

"So Have I! But we've run out of characters. So you're up again."

"What about Carrot? Or Angua?"

"They don't count. You know that. I'm just glad we got them out of the green room. We'd best not tell the audience there are pictures up on my deviant site."

Can't Robin do it?"

"He hasn't been introduced yet!"

"Rosencrantz and Guildenstern?"

"If you mean your brothers in law, they haven't been introduced either! And if you mean the real Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, they're dead."

"Alright, alright."

"Egleriel, Thank you for being a constant reviewer. My mercenary skills will be used to beat up Carrot as much as possible."

The Author pipes up. "Frosteh, I do apologize for your hurting sides. I'll hurt them more, however, if you don't update soon! And I don't owe a cat at the moment, due to my landlord, but there are still several cats in my life, including Pickle, who inspired Carrot II."

James glares at the Author. "Blank Ned, if I recall correctly, I was originally more of a Ferdinand character. You'll be meeting the Ariel character soon, curse his hide. And again, we finally got Carrot out of the leather closet. I think that Protective is cutting off blood to some vital areas."

"ihadanepiphany, we can't tell you yet how Sara controls her plants. But you'll find out soon."

"Artemis-chan of Redwing, thanks for the review! Keep reading!"

James begins to walk off stage, relieved it's all over. The Author catches him by the vest and drags him back over. "And stay tuned after this presentation for a preview of Carrot beatings in the future! And keep reading and reviewing!"

* * *

Locks and Doors

Chapter 6: Reading Tea Leaves

* * *

Sergeant Angua had often been told that she had no gender on duty, and for the most part she had gotten used to it. She was 'sergeant', not 'miss', and corrected those who thought that the two extra large dents in her breastplate meant that she was a pushover. However, as she watched undercover (from a tree) the ambassador's wife carefully tend to her garden, her inner female was feeling quite a bit envious. It wasn't that she wanted to be domesticated- her inner wolf would never stand for it- but something about knowing the joy of being a family, or even just knowing that you were the most important thing in someone's world, made being a watchman- or a werewolf- the unwanted second prize in the game called life.

She stilled as Sara got up from her gardening, stretching her shoulders a bit before brushing off the dirt stained frock. Instead of heading back inside or going to the secondary structure connected to the garden, the former queen walked up to the wall where Angua's tree hung over. "Sergeant, if you wanted gardening tips, you could have just asked." Her voice held no hint of anger, but instead a humorous undertone that made the spying nothing more than a simple joke.

Angua was unsure how to respond- if she didn't, would Sara go on, thinking she had imagined a watchman in her tree? Who was she kidding- the woman didn't strike her as one to accuse a tree without good cause. "How did you know?"

"I heard of plants doing a lot of things, but sighing isn't really one of them- at least, not around here. Would you like to come in for some tea? It's rather chilly out, and you can still tell your Commander you kept an eye on me."

Angua had to admit that sounded better than staying in the tree. Her bottom was getting sore sitting on this tree branch, and a cup of tea might do something to stave off the chill of late autumn. Carefully, she shambled out of the tree, onto the wall and then down onto the stone path of the garden. "Was I really that loud?"

"Not particularly, but were women. We generally will hear another woman's misery than anyone else. And I have to say, you don't sound like you're having a good day. And I don't think it has to do with wolves being unaccustomed to trees."

Angua nodded a moment before the words got to her brain. She turned sharply. "How do you-?"

Sara ducked her head apologetically. "I heard about the Watch having a werewolf, and saw you with the captain a couple nights past. Unlike Mr. de Worde, I do know that hair color is a factor in a werewolf's appearance. There aren't very many blonde females on the Watch, are there?"

The ousted werewolf nodded distantly. "You've met others?"

"A couple. Myrrna has several clans up in the mountain region. They're more of a nomadic group of people than in Uberwald, from what I understand. But they're good folk. Even helped out when Genua decided to try and invade through a mountain pass." She unlocked the back door of the house, leading to a cozy little kitchen, complete with a swamp dragon stove and an indoor pump basin. Dozens of herbs dangled upside down from the ceiling, in various states of dehydration. Angua breathed in the wondrous smells, reveling in the cleansing effect it had on her nose- she'd hadn't been able to breathe like this since she'd been in Ankh-Morpork.

"I'm not a werewolf, but I still spent a lot of my childhood outside of cities. I don't know how you people manage to stand it- the river alone could kill someone." She walked over to a line of what Angua smelled were tea leaves. "Any particular tea you prefer? I have vanilla, black, Patrician, peppermint and licorice. Rosehip and Klatchian are ready yet for brewing, I'm afraid."

Angua shook her head, slightly distracted. "Vanilla, I guess. With criminals using peppermint spray lately, I don't think I can stand it anymore." She watched Sara unhook a vanilla bean and a bundle of tea leaves. "How do you know so much about herbs? Whatever you gave Carrot really kept the swelling down. Isn't royalty generally within cities?"

Sara shrugged as she dropped the concoction into a teapot and fed the dragon a charcoal brisket. "Even as Myrrnatian royalty goes, I'm a bit of an oddball. Not the most pleasant thing to born into, let me tell you right off, no matter what they tell you. You can't turn around and say 'You know, I really think I want to be a painter' and enroll in art school. Being a girl just makes it worse." She plopped down into an old chair and motioned Angua to sit in the other across the table. "I suspect it's a little like being a werewolf. But that's just my opinion."

Except you get to don't deal with fleas, Angua thought, but she had to admit it sounded a little similar to her own familial problems. "Still doesn't explain a queen drying her own tea, though."

A lopsided grin fell over Sara's face. "Or how a werewolf ends up being a Watchwoman dating a dwarf." Angua rolled her eyes at that. "Tell you what. You tell me how you decided to join the force, and I'll tell you a little about myself. Sound fair?"

Angua had to agree. So she explained how she had managed to spot a poster for the Watch after realizing being a seamstress was not how she wanted to spend her evenings. Sara listened intently, even as she pulled the tea kettle off the dragon and poured them both two large mug-fulls. She didn't give most of the details how she and Carrot ended up together- that was something even a watchwoman didn't mention in polite company. Sara seemed to get the idea, however, but politely hid her smile in her mug.

"-and Carrot got promoted to Captain, and Mr. Vimes became the commander." Angua finished. "Not exactly a fairytale ending- or even a beginning for that matter, but we seem to make it work."

A faraway humor danced across the features of the older woman. "Fairytales are overrated, if you ask me. They lead people to have misconceptions about anything they don't know about. But I think we both know about that." Her smile slipped into a bit of a smirk. "Seven Hells, if it weren't for fairytales, I would have never gotten into this mess of a life."

Sara swilled the remaining tea in her mug, as if divining her past. "Tell me, what would you say if I told you that I was originally a prince?"

Angua choked on a mouthful of tea. Coughing a bit, she tried to make sense of what was just said. "What?" She managed weakly.

The grin was back again. "Oh, I've always been a girl; don't worry about that. Let me back up and explain.

Myrrna has always been a bit of an odd place- there's still areas of wild magic running about, and different species have been forced to coexist for quite a while. We've always been a bunch of misfits, and it takes a lot more than someone with a crown and some great ancestor to get it all to work. A child has to pass a series of tests in order to become an heir apparent-don't ask me how the tradition started, but it seems to have worked for hundreds of years.

When I was born, the first two tests were presided over by six appointed lords. Since they're all chosen by their peers by hidden vote, there's no way they can conspire to fake the results. Only after they finish the first tests is a birth officially announced. This is all well and good, but several of those lords were, well to put it bluntly, old. And they were used to tradition. So when they performed the tests and I passed- no one checked the _sex_ of the new heir. Before anyone could stop them, they had announced the birth of a viable, healthy _prince_." She rolled her eyes.

Angua hid her laughter behind her hand. "Oh, no…you're kidding."

Sara winced. "I wish! Dad tried to explain, but then people thought there were twins! It didn't help that my brothers were twins either. They too passed the trials of birth. I was first and held precedence, but I was a girl." She looked away, letting out a sigh. "I wondered if I would have been happier if I had let them take the throne. But we can't always have our way."

"Heirs had always been trained as knights to better lead the armies and understand the personal pains of their people. People knew I existed, even if they thought I was a boy, so they couldn't simply send me to be a proper lady. So I was trained as a field medic at first, keep my identity a secret. That's where I learned so much about herbology."

Angua blinked. "How did you manage to become Queen then? And who's ruling Myrrna now? One of your brothers?"

A staccato of laughter startled the watchwoman. Sara waggled a finger, tsking. "That's a story for another day. But if you must know, my father still sits on the throne. My brothers never took the final test for the crown." A sudden sobriety enveloped her. "I hope you understand that I can't tell you everything. You've done a lot for me, and I feel bad if secrets kept us from being friends."

Angua was confused. "Friends?"

Sara blushed slightly and ducked her head. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to be presumptuous. I don't have many here. It seems the nobility here only believes in allies." She looked at the bottom of her mug. "Allies don't have tea and talk about life. Allies stab each other in the back."

Angua grimaced weakly. She smelled so honest when she said that. "I don't know if a werewolf makes a very good friend…"

Sara stuck out her tongue. "Let me decide that. Everyone's allowed to have their quirks."

"I don't think being a werewolf counts as a quirk…"

"Most would say the same about being a formal queen."

"Point." Angua wasn't sure what to say next, and was relieved when the small clock on the wall chimed the hour. "I'd better get back to the Watch House. Mr. Vimes will want me to check in with him before signing off."

"Oh, dear. I've kept you much longer than I should have." She cleared the mugs into the sink. "Do you mind if I walk with you? I don't want you getting in trouble for me catching you, and with James off teaching, I've got nothing to do around the house."

Angua shrugged. "Sure, I-wait, 'teaching'?"

Sara rolled her eyes. "Yes, beginner music theory at the Guild of Musicians. I feel sorry for the poor things; he takes it a bit too seriously at times."

Angua processed this, a low groan building at the back of her throat. "Oh, no. Carrot…"

The ambassador's wife blinked. "You mean…Oh dear. I've heard the Captain isn't very good at undercover work."

"He's isn't; he's terrible at it. He thinks it's wrong to hide the fact that you're a cop; not that you could disguise him anyway. But no one else would volunteer, after the, er, incident at the Bucket." And the fact that he's a mercenary had several decide they had last minute funerals to attend.

"I can see that. James isn't the easiest man to get along with. I take it that Vetinari mentioning his former occupation wasn't very helpful in that regard either."

"You knew that we knew?"

A sly smile reminded Angua that Sara wasn't a simple noble; she had once been very aware of the intricacies of power. "Your Patrician was very thorough in his information gathering. So were we. I'd have been rather disappointed if he didn't manage to find it out."

Angua scratched her cheek absently. "I can see that, I guess." Another thought weighed her down. "Do you know what your husband and carrot talked about after they left the Bucket? It's just, well, Carrot's been acting a bit…odd, since then." If you can describe catching him stealing glances at her whenever they were together, and him being rather quiet odd.

"Besides the whole bit about calling him sir, no. James wouldn't tell me what they talked about. But…" She shook her head. "He just said something about old mistakes. Sorry."

They paused for a moment while Sara locked the front door of the Embassy. "I wouldn't worry too much, though. Men are incredibly fickle when it comes to relationships. You just have to be patient."

Angua sighed. "Carrot's not like everyone else."

"I would hope not. What's the point of dating everyone else? And I take it you're not talking about the whole raised by dwarf bit."

A sigh escaped the beleaguered watchwoman. "Yes. Carrot's wonderful, for the most part, but it won't work. One day people will figure it out and I won't be able to stay, and who know what it will do to him…"

"That's a very stupid way of thinking, if you want my honest opinion. But I can understand it's frightening. James said it too." She, too, sighed. "He didn't know who I was for a while. When he found out, he figured it would be for the best if we didn't see each other anymore."

"What did you do?"

"Threw a tankard at him, actually. And about anything else I could get my hands on. He needed twelve stitches." She shrugged. "I told him you can't decide what's best for anyone else but yourself, and when you get to those problems, it's a lot easier to cross them when you got someone you can trust with all your heart by your side. After he regained consciousness, of course."

"And that worked?"

"Of course not. It took a war and an assassination plot to get him to figure it out."

Angua digested this. "I used to think my love life was bizarre. I almost think you're pulling my tail."

"I wish. Anyways, if the king and queen of Lancre can do it, and we can, why not you and your dwarf?"

"Very funny. Do you know how hard it is to drop naughty hints when your boyfriend's concept of subtext is footnotes?"

Sara blinked. "You're kidding me. How do you survive?"

"Barely. The only way seems to be direct force. And that's hard when he's six foot six." Angua grumbled.

"You know, I was going to suggest we go save him from James, but right now I think he may deserve having the stuffing kicked out of him." Sara grinned. "And maybe after work we'll take you lingerie shopping."

Angua glared at her. "Um, wolves and lots of strappy things do not work well."

The grin was taking on a downright evil look to it. "Oh, lingerie is not for wearing, mostly. It's for dropping hints even the Captain would have a hard time ignoring. I mean, you could simply stick it in his locker…"

"He'd probably think it was some sort of new cloth for buffing armor."

"…We're really going to have to work on him, aren't we?"

"I've given up, in all honesty."

Sara tsked. "Never say never. Perhaps if we consulted the memoirs of Casanunda we can get hints on getting through dwarf literalism."

Angua had to admit she hadn't thought about this. "I must say you're scaring me the amount of thought you've put into this."

A laugh escaped Sara as she walked ahead and spun around. "It's fun! Plus, can you blame me for wanting my future child to have playmates?"

"Yes!" But the laughter was infectious. If anyone wondered why the top watchwoman and a noble lady were having a hard time breathing, well, they ought to know better. Ankh-Morpork was never known for being normal.

* * *

Unbeknownst to anyone in Ankh-Morpork, a stranger was walking towards their city with a bit swagger and the occasional detour towards a lady of interest. But he was heading towards Ankh-Morpork, bringing trouble in every stitch of his patchwork coat.

* * *

dadadum... 

"And now," The Author coughs, "We promised to continue beating of sense into Captain Carrot. So, without further ado…."

Carrot is seen running, much like a lion with its tail on fire, from stage left. James, wearing all black, launches after him, hands outstretched like claws. "Oh, come back here you wuss!"

The Author watches for a moment. "I guess this will have to wait until James _catches_ him. Maybe next time."


	7. An Invitation of a Stranger

The Author steps out onstage, looking for her cast. She moves towards a futon couch on the left hand of the stage. James and Carrot are watching a movie, and later is still wearing a dog collar from an earlier OoC momemt. "Uh, Guys? Shouldn't we be introducing this chapter?"

"No."

"What are you watching?"

James and Carrot grin at each other. "Everybody was Kuuuuung Fuuuuuu Figtannng!"

The Author slaps her forehead. "Kung Fu Hustle! I thought I told you to stay out of my movie collection…"

"It's not yours."

"Who's is it?"

"Um….." Both men looked at each other.

Backstage, Vetinari presses a play button. "I so do love Stephen Chow…"

* * *

Erm, anyway…

Ozodrac, thank you so much for the compliments! But have you been reading ahead?

And Frosteh, you write me a dirty C/A scene, I will gladly give detailed illustrations….

BlankNed, I think we need to write a fic together… better yet, you should write my fics for me. That one scene was better than anything I had thought up….

Artemis, ihadanephinany, and GG Crono, thank you so much for reviewing! Sure, it doesn't look like much, but I promise that there is actually a plot now, even if it's just leading up to the next fic….heehehehee, yes, this a trilogy…

Locks and Doors

Chapter 7: An Invitation of a Stranger

Carrot had to admit he was not having the best of days.

* * *

James stood next to him, packing away a Guild guitar in a case. One of the younger students was quizzing the ambassador about some of the pieces covered in the class. The student was stuck on pronouncing a few words in Myrrnatian.

"It's pronounced Sha-mee-sen. Don't worry, it's not something you necessarily need to know for this course, unless you plan to play festival music." The case clicked shut.

The boy looked confused. "Sir, you're from Myrrna, right?"

"Mhmm."

"So why do you speak Morporkian so well? Master Honso has been here ten years, and he's got an accent. You don't." James nodded.

"Well, there are two reasons for that. Mr. Honso's specialty is court music, is it not? You don't need to annunciate like street players do. And secondly, Mr. Honso trained at the academy in Myrrna. You have to speak proper Myrrnatian there. Most of Myrrna doesn't speak it anymore, though."

"Why?"

The ambassador rolled his eyes. "Mathew, isn't it? Well, Mathew, have you ever heard anyone speak proper Myrrnatian? It's not very pretty (1)."

Mathew snorted a bit. No doubt he had; Master Honso was a few notes short of a chord when it came to 'old country' pride. The young student hid his grin with a bow and darted out the hallway. James turned back to the captain of the Watch, who, if one didn't know better, seemed to be sulking. "Recovered yet, Carrot?"

Carrot rubbed his hand gingerly along the bottom of his ribcage. "That wasn't very friendly, you know."

"Oh, stop complaining. You did ask for it, sitting in on my class. At least I pulled the punch- and you did show much better breathing technique afterward."

"It still wasn't very nice."

Once again the ambassador rolled his blue eyes. "Pain is temporary. Good singing is eternal." He shook his finger accusingly, like, well…a school teacher. "Besides, if you breathe with your shoulders like that, you wear out your vocal chords sooner, and no one will listen to Captain Carrot if they can't hear Captain Carrot, correct? Oh, and you can put your breastplate back on. Guild regulations only require it off for class."

Carrot nodded absently as his redid the buckles. If he was a suspicious man, he'd wonder if James was behind that particular Guild rule. "You seem to really like teaching."

"I do. I used to take lives; some of them no older than these young students. Making sure that these boys get to live as much of their lives as they can is just a bit of atonement." He didn't look at the Captain. "I don't have the cloak of truth or justice a watchman has, Carrot. I've got blood on my hands, and changing my job isn't going to wash it off."

"You were protecting your country-"

"Bullshit. Those poor soldiers didn't ask to be there. It's the damn rulers that decide they're sick of paying for nicer fabric for their tights." He spat the words out like they were venom. "And I had the honor of watching those poor bastards die while the guys who put them there were a hundred miles away. I hated they held those poor bastards lives as substitutes for their own. Suddenly I'm one of them."

The birthmark on Carrot's arm seemed to burn. "Why did you become a mercenary if you hated what you had to do?"

Blue eyes burned like ice. "You think I had a choice! I-" He looked to the floor, shoulders sagging. "-Look. Forget it." He looked up at Carrot again, the anger abated; he looked suddenly very old, like an ancient sword, dulled by countless carnage. "No mercenary likes killing, Carrot. We're human. A mercenary who isn't affected by death is as much a psychopath as he would be in any other job. We just happen to be very good at it. We have to be, to come back with enough bits to go back out again."

He led them out the front gate, nodding to the drummer turned sentry. Drummers were very effective as sentries- they were well trained at beating things. Carrot paused for a moment, to look at the two flags that hung on the inside wall above the gate. One was the Ankh-Morpork flag, bearing much of the same design as his badge. The other was a much larger design of he'd seen on the knives carried by the ambassador. A rather runic design of a dragon, with its wings outstretched was center on a blue background, flanked with runic script he could read on either side. If one looked closely, however, it could be seen someone had gone and stitched two new additions under the wings of the dragon; they were small, but Carrot could recognize paw prints from this distance.

James walked back to the captain when he noticed the other hadn't followed him out. He tilted his head. "The Myrrnatian flag- I think they only put it up when I started teaching here." He frowned. "I need to speak to them about those unapproved additions up there."

"But weren't you called Shadow Wolf?"

James blinked. "You know about that? Sara was right when she said Vetinari was thorough…. But anyway, that was only a nickname given to me by the guild. Technically, when I rescinded my title as an active guild member, I rescinded the name as well."

"Oh. What does it say on either side, though? I'm not familiar with the language…"

"It's old Myrrnatian- before we took on the Morporkian alphabet. It reads, 'King or Slave, all are equal under Death's Scythe.'"

Carrot looked mildly horrified. "That's not very nice sounding at all."

The ambassador rolled his eyes. "It's not meant to be 'nice'. It's a reminder to never get cocky. An arrow or a sword doesn't care if you're a king when it's after you." He walked back towards the gate. When he saw Carrot still would not follow, he grabbed one of those honest ears and pulled him out.

* * *

(1) It's not. Try speaking Japanese with a strong Scottish accent. It sounds just about as silly.

* * *

Commander Samuel Vimes was doing what he did best when there was a knock on his door; he was avoiding paperwork. However, when he heard the voice that asked to come in, paperwork seemed a lot more enjoyable. "Come in."

Sara Cooper walked silently in before closing the door shut. "Your Grace. Or would you prefer Commander Vimes?"

Vimes was a little put off by the question. He had expected an angry tirade about his officers or his tactics. He wasn't prepared for a polite smile and deference to him. Part of his brain noted that Vetinari did the same to him on a number of occasions; however, if the Patrician ever smiled like that to someone, most of Ankh-Morpork would begin building barricades- and then move to another country. "Er…Commander is fine, Madam."

"Sara, sir. Madam makes me sound like my mother. And she broke the fingers of anyone who tried to call her that. Repeatively, if necessary."

Vimes winced. "Ouch."

"Oh, it wasn't too bad. Lord Forthwight eventually got some movement back in his right hand."

"I get the point. Alright, Sara, do you mind telling me why your here?"

"It's not about the assignment of a watch detail to me or my husband. It's healthy to be suspicious in a world of politics. But I would prefer if we stopped sneaking in each others shadows. I'm not in the best condition to have you follow me all the way to Klatch to have you believe me."

"You know about that?"

"It would be hard not to. Klatch had originally planned to invade Myrrna before the whole business of Leshp, so we were terribly interested when there was a tales of a rag tag group of watchmen managed to stop an entire war two days in." A spark of amusement flashed through violet eyes. "Is it really true your captain organized a football match between the armies?"

"Captain Carrot can be rather persuasive when he wants to be." Very persuasive, indeed. But even the most persuasive men were taken down a notch when they've got one of the worst cases of sunburn Sam had ever seen. Sergeant Angua had a bit of fun playing nursemaid, from what he could tell through the thin walls between his office and Carrot's room. "But this isn't about Carrot…is it?"

"Hardly. This is about good relations, Commander. Good relations between two representatives of laws- you look at me and see a crown, Sam Vimes. In Myrrna, the crown is superfluous-it's a matter of making sure everyone has a chance to survive. That means understanding and upholding the law. I understand you're a fan of General Tacticus. Did you know he was taught by a Myrrnatian mercenary?"

Vimes shook his head dumbly. There was something in the way she spoke- he had a hard time connect what he heard and what he saw- he _saw_ a petite woman, a few inches shorter than Angua and very delicate looking, even in her simple skirts; but he _heard_ a voice that had an edge of a war vetern, a soldier who had watched their friends die and had killed in the darkness of night. "I must say you're a very different lady than when I first met you."

She nodded absently. "Funny, you're not the first to say that. Is there something about me that makes people assume that I'd faint at the sight of blood?"

"Er…"

"Is it the hair? You can be honest."

It took a moment for Vimes to realize this was another Sheep's eyeball. "You're not going to make me fall for that."

A grin curled up the side of Sara's face. "Nice to see you're smarter than most of what counts for nobility seems to believe, sir. I think even Vetinari may have underestimated you're ability to adapt to the world of politics."

"Fat lot of good that does me. I'll ask you again, what do you want?"

"For Sybil and to come over to dinner this Friday."

The cigar nearly burned his hand as he tried to catch it. "Wha- Why are you asking me this? Don't you ladies normally send out gold embossed cards with lilac essence for these sort of things?"

That got him a glare. "And here I was offering you the chance of choosing the dress code. But if you'd much prefer I do this through proper channels… After all, it's hardly proper for an ambassador and Duke to meet informally…"

A wheel began to catch in Vimes' head. Informal was a word used by Sybil whenever she was out in the dragon pens, or when he was in his Watch uniform...Proper was equated with inbred stupidity…pantaloons and red tights. The cigar quivered as puzzle pieces fell into place. "We frown at blackmail here."

"Says the man who's had two non-guilty people shadowed for the past two days. And that's not counting the three days you just had the beggars noting our comings and goings."

"You're as innocent as-"

"Non-guilty and innocent are hardly the same word, Commander." The two calloused-but-feminine hands steepled, hardly hiding the growing smile; she almost seemed to be channeling Vetinari. That was something to scare anyone into submission.

Sam Vimes' teeth clenched around the cigar so tight the next words. "…Fine. But you're going to back me up if Sybil asks about the dress code, right?"

"Commander, you seem not to realize you're not the only one who suffers in formal situations. If I have to wear another corset in my lifetime it will be too soon." The nasty smirk had turned into a truly kind smile. "But really, Commander. I don't want us to be on different sides of a barricade here. And if I need to play a couple of underhand tricks to get you to listen, I'm going to."

Vimes nodded slowly. "Anyway, Sara, I've got work to do. I hate to admit Vetinari's right, but people will get suspicious if you hang around here too long. I'll be glad to walk you out."

"Thank you, sir. Although I have more thing to ask…could you make sure Captain Carrot and Sergeant Angua come along as well? After all, it would look less suspicious that way- and I have a few things I'd like to discuss with both of them."

This time the cigar managed to singe his fingers.

* * *

Carrot returned the two clacks paddles to the pouch on his pocket, then turned to the ambassador, who was currently coming up empty on his search for a cigarette. "S-James?"

The ambassador looked up. It seemed Sara had found the remains of the pack he'd bought two weeks ago. "Yeah?"

"Your wife is at the Yard, speaking to Mr. Vimes. I thought you'd like to know."

James frowned for a moment before recognition sparked through his eyes. "Oh, that's right. She wanted to invite them to dinner this Friday, along with you and your Understanding." He grinned at how easy it was to make the bigger man uncomfortable. "It's the night before the festival, and Myrrnatian tradition demands we invite all new acquaintances beforehand."

The Captain recalled that this time every year the cloth district held festivities around All Souls Day, harkening some tradition long forgotten. "I'd have to make sure it was ok with Mr. Vimes and Angua first."

"Of course, of course. Well, since classes are finished, I better go rescue your Commander from Sara's clutches." He turned up the street.

"But the Watch House is this way!" Carrot exclaimed, following as he turned down a side street.

"Not the way I go, Carrot." He began to button his short gray coat shut.

"I can assure you the fastest way is back down…"

"Is that a challenge, Captain?"

Carrot stopped, confused. "No, I was…"

James patted him on the shoulder. "Tell you what. How about a race? If you get back first, I'll answer any question you or your Commander ask me. And if I win…" An evil sort of grin crawled up the side of his face, "You have to take my introductory music course."

"I-"

"Great!" And with that, the older man seemed to be a blur of movement. He jumped on top of the remains of a retaining wall, then sprung up to a cornice of a building's second floor. With a twist, he leapt to a low rooftop, and out of sight.

Carrot gaped. The man seemed to have danced an intricate ballet with the city's natural landscape of protruding balconies, sculpture and rooflines. No wonder the beggar's guild couldn't even keep an eye on the ambassador.

The Captain of the Watch was still there when James' head poked back over the roofline. "A race usually involves more than one party is moving."

With that, both men nodded and took off across the city.

Rounding the corner towards the Brass Bridge, James had the advantage- Carrot had managed to catch glimpses along the rooftops, jumping, falling and rolling with the ever changing heights. He'd even skipped along several balconies, throwing in another twirl and turn to the delight of the street below. If he didn't know better, Carrot would have guessed this foreigner was mocking him- this was his city, after all.

But Carrot would have an advantage at the river. Nobody could span the Ankh in a single jump, and getting back down to street level to cross the bridge. He pushed forward, hoping to widen the gap, giving him a greater lead as James wound down to the street level….

* * *

The ambassador didn't bother. With a couple of well leaps, he had gone from the roofline to a stagecoach's roof to the nearest brass hippo. Carrot could only grumble and try and keep up as every possible surface became part of the urban acrobat's dance.

Angua fell into step on the other side of Sara. "Were you ever planning to ask me if I wanted to come to dinner?"

A black eyebrow rose. "Do Watch members generally listen in on conversations so blatantly?"

"Your husband, by all accounts, is quite a dangerous man; unlike others, we in the Watch happen to know that often behind a dangerous man is an equally dangerous woman." Commander Vimes tried desperately not to catch either woman's eye. If he was to speak now, no doubt he would greatly regret it.

Sara put her hands up defensively. "What is with you people thinking I'm going to kill you? Look, I don't mind treating me as someone dangerous- from what I can tell, that's a compliment in Ankh-Morpork. But do you know I'd have to be dumber than a troll in Klatch at noontime to do anything to Commander Vimes personally? I would hope you don't think of us that stupidly." The hands lowered to fold in her apron. "I was going to ask you- but I needed to make sure your Commander understood that I'm not trying to pick you people off one by one. Would you come if he said no?"

Angua blinked once before she smiled apologetically. "You do have a point there. I can't speak for Carrot, but I'd loved to. With permission from Commander Vimes, of course." She added hastily, seeing the look on Vimes' face.

Sara clapped her hands together in front of her smile. "Oh, this is going to be great! I know you're vegetarian, but I gotten a couple of great recipes that I'm sure you'll like…"

The rest of what Sara had to say was cut off by the sound of something landing on the roof heavily, followed by what seemed like footsteps. The noise ended with a crash in the midst of the Yard.

When the dust cleared, Sara slapped her hand over her eyes. "You're doing your own laundry from now on, you lout!"

James brushed off the dirt of the Yard floor, and stood up, looking a bit sheepish. He opened his mouth, but the sound of the Yard door slamming open had its say first. Carrot stood there, panting, with his head hung low in defeat.

But his expression was that of complete awe when he raised it. "How did you DO that?"

Sara looked from Carrot to glare at her husband. "James, I thought I told you not to engage in parkour here!"

Angua and Vimes looked at each other, confused. "Parkour?"

James shuffled his feet, embarrassed. Sara sighed, annoyed. "It's a Myrrnatian hobby, of sorts, meaning literally 'free running'. It's sort of a combination between acrobatics and street fighting. A lot of mercenaries participate- including one damned idiot who's gone and gotten a perfectly good dress shirt dirty!"

"But…but…"

Sara sliced her hand in the air. "We're not here to show off." She turned to Vimes, who was still thoroughly confused. "I think we've caused enough mischief for you today, sir. If you don't mind, I think we'll take our leave. I have a husband to admonish in full."

But Carrot blocked her way. "But, ma'am, I willingly engaged the ambassador in contest. He hasn't done anything wrong, besides violate the roofer's safety violation act of 1615. You really shouldn't blame him."

The look she gave him had lost any of the humor that might have been in the situation. "Captain, I know it's hard to believe, but this isn't about laws and ordinances. This is about making sure the less people who might be able to put two and two together about an ambassador and his wife know about us. Everyone may like you, but we have our fair share of folks who like nothing better than to put a crossbolt between our shoulder blades." She shot a sharp glare to James, who looked away, ashamed. "We can fend for ourselves for the most part. But not if they know who we really are."

Nobody answered; Carrot mutely let them pass, looking for some sort of guidance from Angua or Vimes the entire time. But neither could offer a word of advice; it almost felt like they were part of a joke gone horribly sour- here they'd been upset for being lied to; but they needed those lies to survive. Even as Sara smiled and said a goodbye like nothing had happened, the feeling of coldness prevailed.

"Um, hello, I was hoping someone could direct me where the Myrrna Embassy...bloody hell, is that you, James?"

Everyone turned the door, startled by the sudden intrusion.

A young slip of man, looking barely out of his teens, stood at the door of the Yard. James didn't answer, but took a step back, as if ready to bolt at any moment.

It didn't make sense to Vimes. The boy was a few inches taller than himself, dressed in a trench coat made of dozens of patches of fabric, topped with a fox skin that looked like it belonged on an old lady. It barely hid the fact that the black leather trousers he wore were a smidgen too tight than what went for decent in Ankh-Morpork. Nevermind the fact that his hair looked like it had been used for a paintbrush- the black roots contrasted with a red worse than Carrot's.

The nose of a werewolf could understand what a human's eyes couldn't. "He's an… fairy!"

"What, you mean like those that hang out down by Dressmaker's Lane?"

"No, no… Look at his ears, for gods' sake!" Sure enough, one could make out the long pointed tips out of his hair, which he pulled back to show them off.

A smile that belonged on a stripper danced across the strangers lips. "Nice to see someone get it right for once. Robin Goodfellow, at your service…brother."

* * *

To Be continued... (Btw, Parkour is an actual french sport... it's so rockin...) 


	8. Bloody Spots on the Past

The Curtain Draws on the stage of the Fourth Wall, with a handsome young man with pointy ears and pants that are classified as indecent even by Chippendales in center stage

Robin: Now girls and boys, I'd like to apologize for the lack of updates here at this little fic. Our author's gone respectable on us, and that means I've been forced to wait out my grand entrance for a few three months. Now, this wouldn't be so deplorable if some of the readers hadn't decided to skip town as well coughFrostehcough. So I'm sorry to say that instead of answering all your nice reviews, I'm going to seduce every major Discworld character until I see some results, girls and boys! I-

Robin drops out of sight through a trap door on the stage. The author walks out, sheepish

Ok, sorry about that, but Fey are full of themselves. I wanted to apologize for the lack updates, but between starting work full time (on top of classes!) and the arrival of Thud, I've been in a bit of a writers' block for this story. I know where it's going and how it end up, but getting there's still a problem. Hopefully, the extra length and character background will help ease the pain. Also, look for a couple of other goodies, including the start of Blank Ned and my collaboration. (You have been warned, Frosteh!)

So, yeah. And the bonus: PRATCHETT SAID YES(well, most likely) TO THE QUESTION OF PUPPIES IN CARROT AND ANGUA'S FUTURE! REJOYCE, TRUE BELIEVERS OF THE OTP!

Cough Er…. Yeah, back to the fic.

Everyone thanks for the reviews, and keep at it! Nothing says write more than cozy critiques. They help, honest. Flames will be used heat the Watch house. Thenkyeww.

Locks And Doors, Chapter 8: Bloody spots of the past

(or, The Authoress is dead. Long Live the Authoress!)

* * *

Somewhere in the past, a frightened child watched through the keyhole of a locked door. His mum had put him there for his own protection, but it hadn't stopped him from lifting the handle this and that way to bounce the lock back- she didn't know he had watched her do it the last three times when she had forgotten the key.

Not that Mummy could complain much right then. She was still too busy fending off the drunken fists of Not Daddy. He'd come home a few minutes before, stinking of smoke and alcohol that the child could smell it from the other side of the door. Not Daddy had been trying to find the money Mummy made making sick people better. But Mummy said she wasn't going to give him anymore. The child had watched this scene before; but Mummy said that it wasn't that Not Daddy didn't love them, he just got…angry sometimes.

But maybe it was the empty bottle this time, or the fact Not Daddy wasn't stopping after a few drunken passes.

"Gimme the gods-damned money, you whore!" Not Daddy had Mummy by her hair now.

"Please, Aaron- you'll wake the children!" That earned her a slap across the face.

"Why the fuck should I care, they're not mine! I took them in as my own after Lupis kicked the bucket, though, and you repay me by hiding my money!" The child stepped back from the door when Not Daddy looked at it.

"Its…not….your…money, you pig! And you gave me no damned choice in the matter! Threatened to throw us out if I didn't!" Mummy tried to twist out of Not Daddy's hold, scratching with her nails on his bare skin. The child was awed- he'd never seen his mum stand up for herself before.

Not that it made much difference. Not Daddy was a drunk and a coward, but Not Daddy was a big man. The alcohol dulled his pain, and he had the advantage. It just wasn't fair!

Something in the pit of his belly stirred, replacing the fear of Not Daddy with anger. It made its way up his spine, making the child's heart race slow to a methodical thump, up to coil around his brain, stirring up images of the nastiness of Not Daddy had done to all of them the past few years. It struck something horribly primal and much older than the child himself when he heard the bottle break against the table. It pushed him out from behind the door before Not Daddy could press the jagged edge to his mum's throat. "Let her go!"

Not Daddy looked up at him, ignoring Mummy's moans of grief. "Lookie here! The eldest brat's come to the rescue of dear old whore." He threw Mummy into the wall, where she slumped, unconscious. "Whatcha gonna do, little man, dribble on me?" The bottle lashed out, catching the child in the chin.

Whatever that ancient, primal thing that had awakened in the boy now screamed through every nerve and vein.

And the child was a child no more.

They found him, cradling his mother softly, completely unaware of the blood that drenched him from head to toe. His blue eyes were glassy and unfocused when he looked up at them, unaware of the horror that surrounded him. In the next room, the twin babes slept soundly in their cribs, untouched by the madness without.

While the others moved to remove the remains of a one sided fight, one, looking barely out of his teens, bent down to look at the boy. He pulled a rag from a pocket of his patchwork coat, wiping some of the blood off the boy's face. He noted the single cut that traced the jawbone, from chin to ear, on the left side. "That's probably going to leave a scar, kid."

The blue eyes focused a little. "Who're you?" It wasn't more than a whisper, but it was a start.

The young man smiled. "I was a friend of your dad's. I was hoping to get here sooner, but that's life."

"My…Dad…?" He caught the boy's chin, holding it in place before he could see the …mess he'd made.

"No, not that guy." There was a firmness in his voice that seemed to ease the boy. "Your real Dad. You probably don't remember him. But I do. And he asked me to look after you- you're a special guy, you know that?"

Blue eye opened wider, seeing the light of day; eyes that so resembled another man's.

"Really special."

* * *

"Like hell you're my brother, Robin. What the hell do you want?" There was a hint of a snarl at the back of James' throat. Whatever the relation was between the two men was, the tone of James' voice spoke of tensions that rivaled Angua's.

An overly dramatic sigh escaped from Robin. "Well, it sounds so much better than 'cousin' now doesn't it? And young lady, I hate to bring it up, but I'm only half 'fairy'...you tend to call them elves, here, do you not?"

"In more ways than one…" James mumbled.

Vimes' eyes nearly crossed trying to work out all the information that had been transmitted the last 15 minutes. He almost wanted to go ask Igor for an extra brain; his was having a hard time keeping up on its own. "He's a fairy? I thought they were a foot high and flew around…"

The comment raised a delicate eyebrow. "Actually, I think you tend to call them elves, here, do you not?" Something of that smile was primal- both dangerous and sexual at the same time. Now, Sam Vimes was all for the idea of people being free to decide what they want, but somewhere in his brain was desperately hoping that smile wasn't directed at him.

"I think you're thinking of Pixies, Commander Vimes." Sara's faint smile concerned him; something about this …man had _her_ worried. "And I don't think they've had wings for thousands of years. They probably traded it in with their fashion sense a millennia ago."

"That was cruel, Sara. Particularly coming from a girl who preferred trousers to skirts for-" He was cut of by the killing glare the lady gave him.

"Robin, what are you doing here?"

There was something very… slippery about the smile he flashed at his cousin-in-law. "Good heavens, I completely forgot about that. Your father asked me if I wouldn't mind checking up on you to see how you were, and to congratulate the two of you. Seems he and your mother are quite anxious to know about their newest grandchild." His smile was reaching the ranks of greased pigs on a hot day.

The ambassador groaned slightly at the news; if any around had in-laws they would have recognized the groan of unpleasant memories that generate from awkward silences at family reunions, generally when the wrong answer is given for particular questions(1). Sara, however, let a small grin float up to her face.

* * *

(1)this is a universal problem with all spouses' family. No matter what you do you're never quite good enough for their baby.

* * *

She grabbed Robin's elbow and spun him around towards the door. "You're a wonderful man, coming all this way to bring us news from home! Let's get you back to the embassy, and you can tell me everything that's been going on, ok?"

To his credit, the half elf got the message very quickly; Vimes saw only a moment's confusion on his face- but the moment was enough. Ah ha, he thought, savoring the moment of triumph- he had been right to thing there was something else going on.

But a really suspicious bastard would wonder if he wasn't meant to catch that moment- after all it took a truly good actor to get the timing for failure just right…

Robin looked hurt. "You'd take me off the streets, hide me away from the world for only your own enjoyment? Sara, dear, I knew you wanted me, but not _that_ badly."

James by all accounts was taking this flirting rather well, and it was only if you were standing right next to him would you have heard the warning growl in his throat. Angua tried not to think how similar it was to the sound right before a cornered wolf pounces….

Robin seemed not to hear. "And anyways, you haven't even introduced me to these wonderful people- especially this gorgeous stud…" Vimes watch in fascinated horror as the self proclaimed half-fae slinked over to Carrot. "What's your name, gorgeous?" Vimes had to bite his cheek hard not to laugh at Carrot's expression.

Angua couldn't decide between laughing, crying or pounding this idiot into the ground. That is, until she heard in accented Canine, "Love, I think he's taken…" This caught her off guard- the smell off him had been so strong she hadn't even noticed that the fox draped over his neck _was still alive_. She was so off guard she didn't even notice him turn his attentions to her.

"My, my… Such a lovely lady for such a lovely man, I can't believe I didn't see it. Such a ménage a trios…." He scooped a loose hand and kissed it.

It was, however, abruptly cut off when James grabbed one of those overly pierced ears and dragged it forcibly towards the exit. "Enough, you twit!"

Sara watched them walk out the door before covering her eyes with a hand. "I apologize, as an emissary for my country. He's one of those things that keeps crawling out of the deep end, no matter how hard we try to cover him up. But please, do come for dinner. I mean, let us make up for this, at least." Her eyes darted to the door. "Again, I apologize. Good bye!"

Vimes watch her rush to the other retreating figures. Her features had a tinge of worry as she had left, and he highly doubted it was about the…the… _guest's_ behavior. Something she didn't feel like sharing with the Watch. Suspicious wheels and paranoid cogs spun in his head- perhaps yet another war would be erupting? Or something more sinister, such as a possible assassination, or a death? Perhaps-

The machine that made up the suspicious bastard part of Vimes swerved, wobbled and crashed as he began to overhear the argument going on behind him.

"-No, really! It spoke in Canine to him!"

"And he understood?"

Angua shrugged her shoulders. "Seemed to, as far as I could tell. I could barely smell anything- he reeked of magic and some sort of musky dust…I hadn't even smelled that it was living, let alone his emotional state! I think the dust was from the coat, though- that thing looked like it had been re-sewn more times than Reg Shoe has."

Carrot didn't say anything, but tapped his chin. "It was very interesting, wasn't it?"

Vimes blinked. "What was?"

"Oh, the coat, sir. If I'm not mistaken, some of the fabric used in the left sleeve was at least from the Era of Lord Minestone- the stitching technique hasn't been duplicated since! They had examples in the Weaver's Guild Museum, but those were inferior copies made decades later. And to think he had it right there, sewn next plain linen…"

Vimes raised an eyebrow at Carrot. Sometimes the wealth of information that flowed from his Captain's mouth made him wonder if the reason Angua liked going on patrol was it was the only time Carrot's nose wasn't nostril deep in dull education. "Well, perhaps the coat was a hand-me-down. I think we have more to worry about this new arrival than simply the make of his coat."

Carrot nodded absently. "Of course- although, I couldn't help but noticing the stitching for all the patches was the same style- as if they were done by the same hand…"

"_Enough_, captain. Anyway, you said that neck warmer was alive, Sergeant?"

Angua nodded. "The fox was alive- and speaking to him, sir, although it was just in Canine. Except, well…it had a funny accent, kind of like those tourists that we keep getting in the summer."

"Not good." Vimes grunted. "Well, hopefully they won't spot Buggy keeping a close eye on them from the sky. Now, I've got to go meet with Vetinari." As if the day couldn't get any more weird.

* * *

Vetinari looked over the usual stack of complaints at Vimes. "Something bothering you, Commander?"

Vimes ignored the stare, focusing instead at a small dent just to the left of the Patrician's head. "Not me, sir. But I think that there is for the Myrrnatian ambassadors."

Vetinari looked unperturbed. "Hmm, well, it may have something to do with Agatean pirates taking four of their trading vessels hostage. Where did you deduce this from?"

"They had a visitor that made them uneasy, sir- bit like an unwanted relative. Sergeant Angua says he smells of magic- claimed he was half-fairy or something."

Vetinari's eyebrows drew together slightly. "Half-fairy? Perhaps you should be discussing this with Archchancellor, Commander."

Vimes let the inner scowl show a bit. "Perhaps, sir. We have enough to deal with- we don't need someone with pointy ears and a patchwork coat stealing child-" Both of them were surprised when the paper in Vetinari's hands ripped. "Er…you alright, sir?"

Vetinari places the two halves neatly on the desk and waved a dismissive hand. "Of course, Vimes. Don't let me detain you."

Vimes was halfway out the door when his confusion was interrupted by the Patrician's strained amusement. "However, if you could, kindly suggest to Captain Carrot that racing ambassadors through the streets and delaying traffic on the Brass Bridge is not exactly covered in the duties of the Watch."

The door closed with a solid bang. After a few minutes, the Patrician nodded slightly at the entrance of his secretary.

Drumknott cleared away the torn paper. "Would you like me to have someone find him for you, sir?"

Vetinari didn't say anything at first, lost in a memory- something Drumknott had never seen his employer do. But it was over before Drumknott could worry about the Patrician's strange behavior. "No. No, that won't be necessary. Now about the complaints about the Lawyer's Guild…"

* * *

Carrot noticed him as he chased after an unlicensed thief on top of the Opera House. After the thief learned that even a pulled punch can make kidneys cry home to mother, he strolled up to greet him. He did notice the gargoyles, who normally wouldn't move if given a choice, had all given the man a good few feet of space, while still moving to get a better view of him. Carrot didn't think on what this could mean.

"Hello James! Enjoying the view?"

The ambassador hardly moved at all, and Carrot wondered at first if he hadn't been heard.

Then the cigarette, grasped between two fingers, was pulled away, and the now empty mouth angled away to let the smoke stream out. "Are you always this bloody

chipper?"

"Well I do try and keep an optimistic view on the world…"

"That, my good sir," He rolled his eyes and let another breath of smoke vanish into the wind, "was a rhetorical question. Saw you caught your mark." He nodded to the Watch House, where the unlicensed thief was being dragged in.

"Yes, hopefully he'll learn his lesson."

"Do you honestly believe that?"

Carrot didn't answer.

"Thank god, for a moment there I thought you really were as empty-headed as you look." The cigarette didn't even bother to leave his mouth this time, as his hands splayed out behind him, slightly. Carrot watched in fascination as the man's legs bunched up underneath on the edge, then kicked to flip him over, upside down on the edge. A moment was used to let out another wisp escaped beside the cigarette, as if this was a natural part of life, like walking. With a deliberate slowness that made the unnatural bend of the body even more impossible, the feet continued their semicircular movement, allowing the body to follow. For a moment reality seemed as bent as the body had been; bright blue eyes met the indifferent gaze and saw beyond it, into a cold darkness that could swallow the world. It called for blood and vengeance- hadn't he seen something like in Mr. Vimes' eyes once? If he had been so lost, he would have felt something answer that call, white for its black, justice for its vengeance.

Suddenly a flock of ravens, feeling the need for a dramatic entrance swooped by, one or two learning the hard way that gargoyles didn't know the difference between them and a pigeon.

Somewhere, one Dramatic God was arguing with Another; their two impressive displays having smashed into each other like two carts who'd missed their respective 'Halt' signs.

Carrot realized he was being frowned at. "I'm sorry?" He said, realizing he'd missed something the other man had said.

James shook his head. "Never mind… The wind's changing, Captain Carrot."

"Is this about the ships?"

The cigarette gave its last puff as James shook his head. "I wish. The Agatean Empire isn't too much of concern to us, now that Emperor Cohen's gone to whiter pastures."

Carrot didn't say anything, but shifted uncomfortably. He knew Cohen very, very briefly.

James sighed. "I've got enough blood on my hands to drown the world…"

"You're hands seem clean from here."

That earned Carrot an eye roll. "I know dwarfs are literally-minded, but surely even you have guessed I was speaking metaphorically." Before threw the butt of the cigarette into the maze of pipes, his hand brushed the thin white scar on his jaw line. "Forget about it. Just thinking about my step father."

"Oh. Was he a nice man?"

"No. Beat me and my mum within an inch our lives, actually."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"Not your fault. Gave me this, just before I killed him."


End file.
